Chapter 5 Nicola #3
The confession left my mouth like it’d been waiting there all night, and for the first time, the space between us didn’t feel charged—it felt fragile. Like if I breathed wrong, the moment would slip through my fingers.
Matteo shifted beside me, his voice low. “I don’t want to scare you.”
I didn’t answer, too lost in thought till he looked over to me. Gianna was still asleep in his lap between us.
“Have you ever been in love?” he asked.
My breath caught.
He said it casually, like he wasn’t asking this huge momentous thing. Something I didn’t talk about freely.
I leaned back against the couch, folding my arms.
“I thought I was once,” I admitted, voice quieter than I meant it to be.
“But I think I was just in love with the idea of being wanted. Or maybe just mattering to someone. Guess I know how to pick ’em since the only long-term relationship I ever had was with a man who was cheating on me the whole damn time. ”
Matteo didn’t say anything, instead his jaw ticked, and I watched him swallow. But he gave me the space, waiting for me to finish.
“Turns out,” I whispered into the night, voice cracking, “love shouldn’t make you feel smaller.”
“No one deserves that.” His voice was low, brows creased.
I only shrugged, shoving back down the emotions that rose too quickly. “What about you?”
He let out a breath, running a hand over his mouth.
“I think I’ve come close,” he said after a moment. “But I always held something back. I told myself it wasn’t the right time or the right person. Maybe that’s on me. But I think I might trust too easily. I’ve been burned a few too many times now by those I thought I could trust.”
I studied him then, the curve of his shoulders, the dip of his brow. It was like the weight of his own honesty surprised him. And something deep inside me ached because we were two people who learned how to survive first and love second—if ever.
“Maybe it just hasn’t been the right kind of love,” I said, surprising myself.
He looked at me.
And whatever was in his eyes, it made it hard to breathe. Not because it was intense, but instead shocking me yet again with that softness.
“I think…” he started, then stopped, glancing down at Gianna’s tiny fist curled in sleep against his arm. “I think the right kind of love makes you feel like more of yourself. Not less.”
The only sound was the hum of the city outside and the gentle tick of the heater.
Matteo was maybe the only person I had ever felt comfortable with in companionable silence.
When he quietly hit me with this rather poignant remark, it showed me that Matteo DeLuca had layers.
That there was something beneath that mask of the ever-smiling golden boy.
I thought about what he said earlier—about chasing the version of himself his sister used to believe in. About how he’s trying to stand beside her now, instead of shielding her from everything.
He was proving that he wasn’t the same man I rolled my eyes at across the paddock garages. He wasn’t just the fast-talking charmer behind the wheel. He was complicated and messy and unexpectedly gentle.
God help me, I think that might have been worse. Because I could handle the version of Matteo who flirted just to get under my skin. I had armor for him. Sarcasm. Sharp edges. But this version? I was not prepared for it.
“Matteo,” I said quietly, not even sure what I’m going to follow it with.
But he cut in first, voice softer than I’d ever heard it. “You’re the most frustrating person I’ve ever met.”
I blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
He was smiling then. “And you’re also the one I think about when I can’t sleep. Which, for the record, is extremely inconvenient.”
My lips parted. I tried to form words. But they scattered like birds in a storm.
I swallowed, eyes darting down to Gianna, like she was some kind of anchor.
“She’s asleep,” he said, noticing. “You can say whatever you want.”
But I couldn’t.
I didn’t know how.
Because part of me wanted to tell him not to look at me like that.
And the other part—the dangerous part—wanted to say look at me more.
So instead, I did the one thing I could manage.
I rested my head on the back of the couch, just slightly closer to him now, and whispered, “It’s becoming rather difficult to find reasons why I should hate you when you’re over here sharing things like this.”
He laughed softly—and just for a second, we existed in that delicate balance between something almost and something real. Gianna shifted in his arms, letting out a tiny sigh, and the spell broke.
“I’ll put her to bed,” he said, getting up and scooping her into his arms. She snuggled in closer to him. My heart squeezed in response.
When he came back, he shut the door to the bedroom where Gianna’s crib was and plopped down on the couch and smirked at the ceiling.
“You wore red again.”
I rolled my eyes, and a reluctant smile tugged at my mouth. “If I knew you were going to turn that into a thing…”
“It is a thing,” he said, grinning. “You wore my team colors.”
I tossed a pillow at him. He dodged it with obnoxious ease. “It’s my team, actually. Don’t make it weird.”
“Too late.” His laughter filled the room like sunlight through curtains, and I hated how good it felt. How easy it was. How right. I reached for one last fry, but he’d already taken it.
“Asshole,” I muttered.
He stretched, grabbing the empty takeout bags and headed toward the door. But just before he reached it, he paused.
Turned back.
And smirked.
“Give me your phone.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
He wiggled his fingers. “Phone. You know, the small computer you are practically physically attached to?”
I narrowed my eyes. “Why?”
“So I can put my number in it.”
I let out a dry laugh. “Why would I want your number?”
He shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “In case you ever want to talk again. Or yell at me. Or invite me over to babysit and bring you fries.”
I glanced at the empty container between us on the coffee table. My stomach flipped, stupidly. “I’m not calling you.”
He smiled wider. “That’s fine. But now you can.”
I hesitated. “You don’t think that’s a little…presumptuous?”
Matteo just held out his hand. “Come on, Princess. Don’t make me beg. Or do. I would love being on my knees for you.”
I gaped at him, heat rushing to my face. “You’re—”
“Inappropriate? Charming? Irresistible?”
“Insufferable.”
“And yet…” He wiggled his fingers again.
I sighed, exasperated, fishing my phone from my back pocket. I passed it to him with a scowl I didn’t fully mean.
He typed something quickly, then handed it back.
“There,” he said. “Now if you ever get tired of pretending you don’t like me, I’m just a text away.”
I snorted. “That’s assuming I would ever text you.”
He was already backing toward the door, eyes glittering with that infuriating confidence.
“I told you, Moretti,” he said, grinning as he pulled the door open. “Ball’s in your court.”